


Sekiro: We Can Never Die

by mintyworks



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice (Video Game)
Genre: Debates of honor, Deep Connection, Hanbei the Undying - Freeform, Hanbei trains Sekiro, Hirata estate guilt, I Ship It, Love, Loyalty, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Partners in Crime, Quiet Sekiro, Romance, Sekiro - Freeform, Sekiro Shadows Die Twice, Shinobi, Slow Burn, Slow friendship, Some Light Humor, Some Plot Spoilers, Temporary Amnesia, There aren't even tags for this yet, Things In Common, Training, Troubled Sekiro, broken pasts, careful affection, deep affection, friendship turns to understanding turns to love, mostly serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-01-11 09:25:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintyworks/pseuds/mintyworks
Summary: Sekiro trains under Hanbei and gains a powerful alley, his closest friend, and a deep connection.





	1. Hanbei's Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sekiro trains under Hanbei and gains a powerful alley, his closest friend, and a deep connection.

          “A warm body that can't die might prove useful to you. I volunteer mine.”

           The wolf squinted; an expression he hoped the strange man wouldn’t notice. There was nothing about this man that struck the Shinobi as _warm_ , but perhaps he did have a point. After all he had been through, his hands felt clammy on the hilt of his blade, _Kusabimaru_ , and his feet unsteady. He felt the strain in the muscles above his knees and the tightness of his stomach, the ache of an old injury at his hip, and the sharp pulse of his newly amputated arm.

           “I will not sit idle while this curse persists,” the taller warrior said. Despite having been defeated brutally in combat just moments before, he stood and talked as any other man would. “And your cause I sense is something I find worth supporting, whatever it may be.”

            Sekiro’s lips parted, almost in the realization that not saying anything would stale the air with the same idleness his new acquaintance feared. And the wolf had to admit, he feared it too.

            “Very well,” Sekiro said.

            “Good! You may call me Hanbei. Some call me Hanbei the Undying. You might hear of Hanbei the Infested as well. Titles that befit a man of my condition, but ones that I cannot find myself admiring.”

            “I see,” Sekiro murmured. He turned to leave, but stopped himself, giving Hanbei a slight bow. “I will think about this arrangement.”

             Hanbei bowed low in return, watching the Shinobi run off down the hill toward the temple.

* * *

 

            Sekiro awoke suddenly and he shifted under the reed coverings. His side ached and he struggled to curl his cold fingers into his palm. At the soonest possible moment he put his hand to his chest and closed his eyes again. The Shinobi Prosthetic lay limp at his side. It was a gift, it was a blessing, truly. But in the pit of his stomach he hated it, hated what had happened and what he had become, and he hated how he had forgotten so much. Patches of the past lost. He felt like a walking husk, driven only by the promise to protect the Divine Heir, and his Young Lord.

            “The morning always humors itself with self-pity and turmoil. You should get up as soon as your eyes open, Shinobi,” the familiar deep and slow voice spoke, and the methodical sounds of chipping and carving occupied Sekiro’s full attention.

             The wolf sat up and exhaled a glottal acknowledgement. “I had dreams….”

             “You will,” the Sculptor said simply. “Why don’t you help yourself to some tea. Hanbei was here earlier and dropped off the steaming pot for you.”

             “For me?” Sekiro questioned.

             “Indeed. I had some. Hope you don’t mind.”

              “No.”

              “Good.”

              Sekiro rose and moved to the small teapot set on the floor beside the Sculptor and was thankful the pot was still steaming hot. He poured himself a cup and took a sip. He released a surprised exhale.

               “It is satisfying, is it not?” the Sculptor asked.

               “Hm,” Sekiro acknowledged.

               “He is useful for many things, Hanbei the Undying.”

               Sekiro didn’t say anything, sipping the tea and enjoying the warmth around his fingers and the steam rushing up his nose as he held it still at his lips. He prepared for each sip even if he hadn’t planned on taking one yet, the comforting bitterness willing him to close his eyes. But, he did not like what he saw in the darkness behind the eyelids, so he opened them before long. He sat and watched the Sculptor carve away at his Buddha. He didn’t sense any precision in his work anymore, but each detail nonetheless appeared effortlessly identical to the hundreds of others scattered and heaped into piles around the room.

               “Hanbei,” Sekiro began. “He offered to help with training.”

               “Mm, I can imagine how. Spare me the details.”

               “I have not accepted,” Sekiro said.

               “Why not? A Shinobi in your predicament could make use of an undying and afflicted man. He may even teach you a few things.”

                “It seems cruel.”

                “One does not invite cruelty upon themselves.”

                Sekiro took another sip of tea, before finishing the cup all together. It warmed his chest around the heart he had clutched at this morning and eased his worry about the troubled dreams. He stood and picked up the pot.

                “I should return this,” Sekiro said.

                “Hanbei would appreciate the gesture,” the Sculptor affirmed.

                Sekiro carried the warm half-filled pot to his chest and offered some tea to Emma and listened to her talk about a cure for the Dragonrot that was afflicting the lands. He listened intently, glancing up the path toward the undying man, and knowing that Hanbei and himself had been linked in that way or someway similar, though the Shinobi was no where near as grotesque. He had so many questions, but he did not want to bother Emma with them. She seemed willing to help but also very tired, so he politely parted with the teapot and walked up the hill. Hanbei sat next to the alter and stood when Sekiro approached him.

                 “The wolf returns,” Hanbei said, resting a palm on the hilt of his sword at his hip. “With my teapot.”

                 “It was good,” Sekiro said. “I shared it with the Sculptor and Emma.”

                 “I could drink a whole pot myself,” Hanbei mused. “It was generous of you to share.”

                  “It was generous of _you_. Thank you.” Sekiro corrected, placing the pot on the steps next to the offering box.

                  “No need to thank me, Shinobi. We sometimes get offerings in that box, as some choose to visit this temple. But that was a long time ago. The bridge has been broken and the path is far more treacherous without it. The teapot, however, was among the offerings. The Sculptor said I could have it.”

                  “Then I shall thank him instead,” Sekiro flicked a smile, and Hanbei released a hesitant laugh. To Sekiro, it sounded like he had forgotten the sound of it, and was almost startled by it, but that could have been his imagination. He could not see a mouth, only the strangely carved mask covering his lips, chin, and nose. It reminded him of the masks he saw as a boy. Men would dress in the streets as all sorts of things, painted masks much more adorned than Hanbei’s. They would perform a trick, yet their expression unreadable. Sekiro admired that, deep down. He had always wished to be as unreadable as the men who wore the masks in the streets.

                   However, everything else about Hanbei was emotive. His gestures, his stance, his voice was filled with a steady energy and lungs full of cold winter air. Even his balding hairline seemed to carry a presence of an experienced warrior. But the man was thin and displeasing to look at. He could only imagine how sickly the form underneath his armor would look.

                  “Have you given any more thought to my offer?”

                  Sekiro wanted to turn away again, he wanted more time to think, but Hanbei deserved an answer in return for his generous spirit.

                  “I think it would do you harm.”

                   “I did not expect a Shinobi to have such a concern for that,” Hanbei said slowly. “You have fought me once, and you have struck me down with a swiftness I have rarely seen in others. If I had not been what I am you would have ended my life then and there, and you worry _now_ of doing me harm?

                   Sekiro grunted. This conversation was tedious.

                   “Very well Hanbei, we will train together.”

                    Hanbei laughed again, a sound Sekiro might have to get used to as well. A firm hand gripped his shoulder and patted him and Sekiro glanced up at the stranger. Hanbei, being far taller than he seemed imposing now as Sekiro gave into his request. His enthusiasm was surprising.

                   Almost unwelcome.

                    “Good! In that case, I stand as your opponent!”


	2. Mata Mata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sekiro learns an important lesson from Hanbei, but not before suffering many failures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this and your comments and encouragement. I will release chapters a couple times a week, whenever I'm not working!

            Sekiro quickly realized that Hanbei must have wanted his death to come swiftly when they had first fought. A part of him felt foolish for not having picked up on that sooner, but when Hanbei had greeted him so calmly and then launched into battle, Sekiro had other things to worry about. The threat to his life had triggered decades’ worth of reflexes, but reflex was a poor replacement for tact and awareness.

            Something Hanbei had plenty of, and something Sekiro was struggling to recall. His body felt like coal being smashed against a rock. Every blow chipped away at him, and he wished for something, anything, to ignite him!

            “ _Mata mata,_ ” Hanbei spoke gently. It was a phrase that certainly sparked a nerve with the Shinobi. Warm foggy breath exploded from his mouth as fat fluffy snowflakes began to fall around them. Sekiro saw an opportunity to attack and pushed forward but Hanbei kicked loose dirt and snow into Sekiro’s face. The Shinobi reeled back and before he had even known what happened, he was pummeled to the ground. Hanbei had tackled him, only to roll off and smack the flat side of his blade against Sekiro’s temple.

             Stars filled his vision for a moment before it cleared. Sekiro blinked until he could see the towering pine trees, the grey skies, and the soft snow falling gently down toward him. And then, Hanbei’s face as he towered over him, his hand on his hilt. The man adjusted his mask before offering a hand. Sekiro refused it, rolling to his knees before standing on his own.

             “You always wish to attack with the blade, Shinobi, but your feet can dance around, and dodge blows that a sword cannot cut down.”

             Sekiro was quiet, counting the dull throbs of his head. A hand moved to his temple, but to hide that he was nursing the blow, he quickly spread his fingers along the silver of his hair.

             “I must be going,” Sekiro said, turning and walking down toward the Buddha shrine in the center of the clearing. Hanbei followed.

             “We barely practiced.”

             “I do not need practice against such cheap tricks and foolery,” Sekiro said, his tone steady, though his pounding head put him in a disagreeable mood.

             Hanbei snorted at the accusation. “The world is not made of the honorable Shinobi, Wolf! You will fine distasteful warriors on your path, and what then?”

             Sekiro didn’t answer, trudging along the trail before taking off on foot. His Young Lord needed him, the precious Divine Heir, and he was wasting time at the temple. His troubles would be his own and through combat he would soon remember everything he needed to know to perform his duties as his Lord’s Shinobi.

* * *

 

            The glowing red eyes of the beast was something Sekiro had only seen in paintings and it was so unbelievable, the battle he found himself in, that he stumbled and struggled to avoid being pummeled to death. The guttural scream of the Ogre was shattering his ears, and his heart pounded in his chest. He had already fallen once to General Kawarada, and that was when he had learned of the Dragon’s Blood that ran through his veins, keeping him from death.

            That did not mean he did not fear it at every moment, including this one. His sword slashed at the arms of the Ogre, and at the ankles, anywhere his blade could reach. He saw the behemoth grab for him, and instead of stepping out of the way he readied to stab the very hand that would clutch him. But he was mistaken. The incredible force grabbed him, fingers squeezing tight around his body.

            Sekiro screamed out in pain as he felt the cracking of bones in his back and ribs. Then he flew, slamming into the tree trunk as the monster tossed him like a sack of old barley. Sekiro was nothing to this creature. It had no motive other than to crush him and facing such a creature head on was a fool’s act.

            To the Ogre, Sekiro must have looked bloody and dead. It turned and lumbered off, moaning and sobbing, holding its head and pulling out chunks of long decrepit hair. Sekiro was in so much pain he could barely move, but he willed himself to crawl through the gates and away from the creature, defeated.

            He could barely recall how he made it back. His legs weren’t working properly. He couldn’t feel them any longer, nor could he breathe. If his lungs weren’t damaged from his broken ribs, they were now because of the exertion he had put his body through to make it to the temple. This throat filled with blood and he spat up on his face and chin. It stung his eyes and robbed him of what was left of his vision.

            The last thing he felt was a rough hand patting his cheek

            “ _Mata mata_.” 

* * *

 

            “It is not a taunt, you know,” Hanbei whispered. “I did not mean it to be.”

            Sekiro sat on the reed coverings inside the temple, and looked out of the low window, his fist on his chin and elbow on his knee. The Sculptor was starting a new carving today, and the methodical chipping was becoming as natural to the ambiance of the place as the snow and the smell of Emma’s perfume.

            “I know what it means,” Sekiro said.

            “My master said it to me in constant. Again, again, again.”  

            “You are not my master.”

            “No, I suppose I am not,” Hanbei said. “But we must still listen to his words. We must persist.”

             Sekiro glanced over and let his eyes trail along Hanbei’s broad shoulders and thin arms. This man was always here now. Always bringing him tea. Always tending to him after he ran away like a coward from that Ogre _again_.

_Mata._

            “Do not count your attempts, Wolf. Do not count your failures. Every time you face this opponent, you must think of _mata mata_. It means you have done well. It means you have learned something in your training, and that you must improve on it. It is not a taunt or a chiding remark. It is a word of encouragement. Think about defeating this foul beast. Practice. Be patient. Test. Discover. Again, and again. How ever many times it takes.”

            “I cannot face that monster once more,” Sekiro admitted. “Because I _do_ remember every failure I have made. It wastes time. Time that is supposed to be dedicated to my duties as a Shinobi!”

            He punched the old wood floor with his Shinobi Prosthetic, and it shook some dust loose from the ceiling. He could hear the old sculptor cough and grunt, as if warning Sekiro to be careful with the precious and rare gift. Hanbei simply chuckled and poured him more tea. Sekiro did not want more tea. He was tired of tea. He was tired. But, Hanbei seemed insistent, so he took the cup gently and sipped at it. Against his wishes he felt a bit better about things.

            Damn this tea.

            “ _Mata mata_?” Sekiro whispered.

            Hanbei smiled and gave him a measured nod of encouragement.

            “Again.”


	3. Brat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanbei, against a warning, treats his friend to a lively battle, only to discover that there was a reason that Sekiro was not to be bothered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to write from Hanbei's perspective this chapter.  
> Also, fun fact, this chapter makes use of a funny character blip when fighting Gyoubu in game, so minor spoiler? You should try it sometime.

* * *

  _"You were still just a puppy…"_  

* * *

 

                “I would not disturb the shinobi today, Hanbei,” the Sculptor said gently.

                “He might benefit from training, some practice to clear his mind. Perhaps I can make some more tea.”

                The Sculptor did not reply to his overeager Undying friend, carving away at his Buddha since Hanbei arrived here. As puzzling as a purpose was, Hanbei never questioned it or wondered. He supposed it was not for him to wonder about, for the Sculptor’s purpose was so much greater than his own, in life and after. There was so much he never understood, nor would never understand, and sadly, Hanbei was beginning to realize that the shinobi warrior might be one of those enigmas.

                “I understand,” Hanbei replied, disappointed by the silence.

                “Be careful, is all I mean,” the Sculptor recanted.

                Hanbei walked out of the temple into the fresh cold air. The snow had stopped falling, and the skies were clear. He saw the sun out today, and almost felt the warmth of the rays wash over his balding scalp.

                _Shuck._

                There was another pause.           

                _Shuck_.

                Hanbei carefully followed the sound to around the back of the temple, where he saw Sekiro chopping wood. There was a massive pile already, certainly no shortage of it, but Sekiro chopped away at it, again, and again. Hanbei kept his distance, leaning against the temple wall and interlacing his fingers in front of him.

                Sekiro tossed him a glance before placing a small log of wood on the splitter trunk. He then raised his axe, an axe Hanbei now noticed was attached to his Shinobi Prosthetic.

                _Schuck!_

                Sekiro paused and glanced his way again. “What?”

                Hanbei pushed off the temple wall, taking that statement as an invite, though it was clear it was not. He had a difficult time caring about such things when he was as he was. Friends were difficult to come by here, and Sekiro needed one now more than ever. And perhaps, so did Hanbei. Was that selfish?

                “I have not seen you in a while, shinobi,” Hanbei said. “Though the Sculptor told me you were able to dispatch the orge after all, and another soon after.”

                “Not just anyone,” Sekiro murmured. He took a step back from the wood pile. “Gyoubu Masataka Oniwa… the demon on a horse.”

                Hanbei’s brow flickered with recognition. “Impressive. So, you remember him?”

                “No,” Sekiro said softly. “I mean…I do. In part I remember him. A fragment I gained only after he lay defeated on the wasted lands of battle. Hundreds of corpses surrounded me and his own stood out among them. He risked so much to come and face me. He recognized me. He called me a _brat_.”

                Hanbei released a surprised snort. It was good to hear the shinobi speak more than a word or two at a time. But still, the way the man spoke, there was never anything boastful or confident even when Hanbei thought he deserved a bit of celebration. Hanbei admired him for that. Something about his indomitable duty to his Young Lord struck Hanbei in a profound way. There was nothing else that the wolf spoke of. In all his suffering, the Divine Heir was like a shining star he set to follow, and he could not even remember _why_.

                But, upon hearing him complain about a petty insult, being called a ‘brat’ of all things, what else was there to do but smile?

                “Well, was he wrong about that?” Hanbei teased.  
                Sekiro put his hand on his sword hilt. “You call me that as well?”

                Hanbei grinned, though Sekiro could never see it, tucked away behind his special mask. A strong hand drew his sword slowly and Sekiro mimicked the gesture.

                “It begs the question, what did you do to warrant such a silly taunt?” Hanbei asked, taking up a stance and sidestepping carefully in the narrow clearing behind the temple.

                “I attacked him before he finished announcing who he was,” Sekiro said.

                “My my, shinobi, you _are_ a brat!”

                And just as expected, Sekiro ran to Hanbei and jumped into an attack. Hanbei deflected and spun around to avoid another attempted blow, taking a momentary lapse in his posture. Sekiro was unforgiving of this, punishing him with a sharp slash at his arm. He was growing stronger and more sure of himself. The shinobi warrior was full of life and vigor and it lifted Hanbei’s spirits in ways he could not describe. Perhaps a bit of it was pride, and he was happy to humor this wolf to a proper fight.

                And to think, the Sculptor had warned Hanbei not to bother his friend today!

                After minutes of heated exchange, Sekiro vaulted to the roof of the temple and Hanbei jumped to follow, readying his sword for another battle. Was it in his imagination? He could have sworn he saw a smile on Sekiro’s face as he lunged forward again. Hanbei switched his stance and performed a ferocious lunge, something that he was hoping his shinobi would pick up on. He did! A foot slammed down his sword and the wolf’s elbow slammed into Hanbei’s masked nose. The graceful body spun and stabbed Hanbei through the chest in a perfect Mikiri counter. Hanbei gasped as he felt his blood plume upward, and he collapsed on the roof. For a moment, things were dark, but it was only for a moment he knew.

                Hanbei clung to an image he only saw when he died. He never spoke of it. The Sculptor had told him not to, and so he never did. But it filled his chest with warmth as he saw the face of someone long gone, someone he had once loved.

                But as always Hanbei got to his feet and brushed himself off. “Excellent… I expected no less of you.”

                But his expectation fell a bit short upon seeing the shinobi standing there, his shoulders slumped, his gaze downward. His fingers loosened around his blade and it dropped, and Hanbei sprung forward to catch the limp body in his arms.

                “Shinobi!” Hanbei yelped, shaking the man in his grasp. He patted his cheek gently, but the warrior was unconscious, his eyes moving underneath the lids. Was he dreaming?         

* * *

                “I told you not to bother him,” the Sculptor lectured. “He made an offering, an important one, and now he traverses a world that is not here, not in this time. Whatever challenges him in his memory he will have to conquer on his own… and what were you thinking?! Sparing on this very roof! You shook dust upon my work with your play and you nearly made me commit an error in my carvings!”

                “My apologies,” Hanbei whispered. He sat against the wall with the shinobi’s head resting on his lap, his face turned toward Hanbei’s stomach. He made note of the strange white scarring on the side of his face, leading into the white frost coloring of his hair. His body shook violently sometimes, and he grabbed and clenched at the air or at Hanbei’s arms. Hanbei felt him dying, over and over again, but he was never waking up. Whatever foe he was facing, it must have been a terrible one.

                The Sculptor murmured something and stood, staggering out of the temple for once. Hanbei heard Lady Emma gently stop him, and they spoke of taking a walk together. Hanbei huffed and looked down to the brave warrior.

                The wolf.

                The brat.

                Whatever his name was.

                Perhaps when the shinobi awoke, he could finally ask.

                “If only I could help you there, wherever you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have work this weekend so I won't be able to post another chapter until my next day off! Thanks for reading!


	4. Mask for a Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sekiro struggles with his manners toward Hanbei, torn between honoring him and keeping him at a distance. When Emma brings bad news, Sekiro finds it easier to reconcile his feelings toward his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient! I have the next few days off and will post when I can. Thank you all for the awesome comments. I really appreciate them! This chapter is a little longer than the others to make up for the wait.

                Sekiro opened his eyes, but he did not quite understand what he was looking at. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes again, trying to will himself into the dream-like haze he had enjoyed after finally defeating that strange woman. He had endured her taunts and her illusions. Inosuke had warned him of her tricks, his eyes scratched out by his own hands. He had seen terrible things. Sekiro had felt the same way. Madam Butterfly had conjured phantoms of the past; faces he knew and recognized. They attacked him like waves lapping at his feet. If it weren’t for the snap seeds Inosuke had given him, he feared his fate would have been similar.

                Despite the aid, he fell to Madam Butterfly’s illusions too many times. Her defeat came at great cost to his constitution, but he had also gained a fragment of his memory. He wondered if all of that truly had happened. He almost couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t been there with his Young Lord at the time of the attack or at the time of the fire. Why would he have left? The pain of that thought bore into his mind more than anything. Despite the coolness of the temple he was now in, he still felt the heat of the fire all around him. He kept it there as punishment.

                Sekiro’s fingers curled against soft robes. He opened his eyes again, only to realize he was staring at a belt. He glanced upward, recognizing Hanbei. He was resting against the wall sleeping, his hand on Sekiro’s shoulder, and Sekiro resting in his lap.

                In a moment the shinobi sat up and pushed away, and the movement woke Hanbei. He watched as the Undying man stirred and looked to him.

                “You are awake at last, shinobi,” Hanbei said. “Are you all right? Are you well?”

                Sekiro felt wordless and distant. He simply slipped back against the wall and exhaled a rough breath.

                “Of course, you aren’t. You look exhausted. Whatever demons you faced in your visions; I know you faced them many times. Tell me, have they been defeated?”

                Sekiro again, struggled to think of what to say. He could tell him that yes, Madam Butterfly was defeated by his hand and the reward was great. Or…he could confess that it did not feel like he had defeated anything, only gained insight for what was to come. One answer was strong, an answer from a shinobi warrior that would no doubt appeal to Hanbei’s obvious dedication to him. The other answer was, perhaps not weak, but exposed. Sekiro studied Hanbei’s dark glistening eyes. What a contrast they were to his mask with the yawning mouth and horse hair mustache. A mask once meant to intimate now only begged from him the respect and honesty Hanbei deserved.

                “I will not count her defeat as a victory. I fear the scars she inflicted will stay with me.”

                A flicker of regret pinged in Sekiro’s chest. Hanbei’s brow furrowed in, what he could only guess, concern.

                “Whatever you faced was terrible, indeed,” Hanbei said. “You died many times in my arms. You were inconsolable. When you finally settled into a true sleep, I was relieved beyond words, shinobi.”

                Sekiro twitched his cheek, confused, remembering that he had woken up in Hanbei’s lap and was surprised of that too. He hadn’t remembered laying there.

                “Why was I….” Sekiro paused to exhale briefly, out of breath simply by thinking of an answer to his following question. “Why was I resting on you, Hanbei?”

                Again, Hanbei’s face twisted, but this time he adverted his eyes. “You feinted in my arms and I brought you here. I did not want to leave you alone when you were experiencing your visions. The Sculptor explained that the journey was yours and yours alone, but I wanted to be there when you awoke.”

                Sekiro didn’t quite know how to respond to that either. He turned away from Hanbei and moved to the window of the temple. The Sculptor was not in his place, nor anywhere to be seen. Emma was not either. His lips parted and he closed his eyes. His body pulsed in memory, hands grabbing onto his arms every time he fell – he remembered this. The shifting of his hair, the soft whispers, gentle pats and clutches. There was always a brief respite that renewed him after failing that, for a reason he hadn’t known then, kept him going.

                Had that been Hanbei all along?

                Sekiro felt his stomach and mind churn in revolt to that thought, though that was confusing as to why. He spun to Hanbei.

                “That was unnecessary,” Sekiro said.

                Hanbei quickly nodded, and Sekiro was stung by his sudden abandonment of sentiment. Which was even more confusing. “Yes, of course it was. My apologies shinobi, I did not mean to insult you. Next time I will leave you in peace.”

                Sekiro felt his throat clench dry. He checked his sword at his hip and gave Hanbei a brief nod before pushing out the door into the snow. He could not think of it anymore. His Young Lord needed him.

* * *

  _“That’s it…a one-armed Wolf. I like it! Which means… Sekiro.”_

* * *

                Sekiro returned to the temple, feeling refreshed and accomplished after facing many of his nightmares, though that evening, sleep did not find him easily. He sighed, thinking of his rudeness to Hanbei, telling someone who had aided him in a way he could describe, that his help was not needed and not wanted.

                What a hypocrite he had been, deciding to be honest to him one moment and dishonest the next. Such ugly thoughts buzzed around his mind like angry insects and left a sour taste in his mouth. Or perhaps that was the taste of the sake he had stolen from Juzou the Drunkard.

                “May I disturb you Master Wolf?” a soft voice sliced through the dark temple. It was Emma. Sekiro lifted his head and twisted the sake bottle in his hand before placing it down beside him.

                “What is it?”

                Emma toed toward him and placed her hands in front of her before bowing. “It is the Sculptor. He has fallen ill.”

                Sekiro started and stood, but the haziness of drink stopped him from taking another unsteady step. “What? What can we do?”

                “I am tending to his illness not far from here. He has a small cabin just beyond the temple forests. I am sad to say it has to do with the Dragonrot…and that I believe it has to do with you…”

                Sekiro winced at that. He had taken too much from the world with his careless deaths. “We must find a cure. Quickly.”

                “I was hoping you could help Hanbei carry supplies to the cabin where he rests,” Emma said gently. “He is making a meal now.”

                Sekiro nodded before he felt another wave of guilt overtake him. He wanted more time to regret his interactions earlier that day, since that was still rather raw to him. If he spoke to Hanbei too soon, he could potentially stain it further. Not to mention he was drunk, which never helped him in circumstances other than laughing at stupid jokes. Sekiro nonetheless bowed to Emma and she departed.

                Sekiro set off to find Hanbei by the fire just outside, the smell of pottage curled up his nostrils. It was not unpleasant. The cold of night was beginning to settle, but damned if that would affect two strong warriors.

                “I’ve come to help bring supplies to the Sculptor,” Sekiro said.

                “That is quite all right, Shinobi. I can handle it.”

                Sekiro paused and clenched his fists, the creaking of the Shinobi Prosthetic grabbed Hanbei’s attention and made him glance upward.

                “Is there something wrong?” Hanbei asked.

                Sekiro did not answer, entranced by the flames.

                “I can tell you are unsettled today. Not a good look for a warrior like you,” Hanbei said bluntly. “Then again, that sake isn’t helping much, is it?”

                “How did—”

                “You reek of it, Wolf.”

                Sekiro curled his lip. Emma must have smelled it on him too then. “I thought it would help.”

                Hanbei chuckled gently, a sound that was as numbing as the booze had been. Sekiro let the sound roll around in his memory until he could no longer recall it.

                “Ah! Don’t you know, you fool! It only helps if you share it with another. Go grab the bottle and let me have a taste. Then you will feel your spirits lifted.”

                Sekiro cracked a tiny smile and turned to retrieve the sake. It took only a moment before he returned. “You will have to take off your mask,” he noted, a soft lilt in his tone. He felt so much lighter, knowing that Hanbei had apparently taken no offense to their conversation earlier that day. He was as jovial as ever.

                “Ah, I suppose you will have to suffer the sight of my ugly mug,” Hanbei said. “I think we should make a trade. Your name for my mask.”

                “I thought the sake would do,” Sekiro said, cocking an eyebrow.

                “The sake is the ante for our wagers. What say you, shinobi? Or do you thrive on your title as substitute for thrills of the flesh. Believe it or not I’ve met a few of those before.”

                “Are you drunk too?” Sekiro accused him though he felt a chuckle boil in his chest. Why would he make such a lewd comment? And why did Sekiro find that funny?

                Oh right. _He_ was drunk.

                “Not drunk, just enterprising,” Hanbei chuckled again.

                “Very well. A name for a glimpse of your face,” Sekiro agreed. He did not want to tell Hanbei that he hadn’t the slightest clue what his real name was, but the name that strange Tengu of Ashina had given him would have to do.

                “You’ll have more than a glimpse,” Hanbei said. Slender fingers peeled back the metal of the face covering, and it was then that Sekiro saw the features of Hanbei’s face. They were confusing. He could make out where his mouth was, but the rest of his face was scarred beyond recognition. Sekiro could only imagine what had done that to him. Hanbei came closer to Sekiro and took the sake bottle, before taking a long and drawn out series of gulps. Sekiro followed the scar lines. They were clean, like someone had drawn lines in the sand, though no tide would recover the pureness of his flesh ever again.

                “What happened?”

                Hanbei chuckled. “Your name first, Shinobi,” he teased, licking his lips with a fat tongue.

                Sekiro studied him for a moment before taking in a deep breath. “Sekiro.”


	5. Every Time I Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sekiro learns about Hanbei's troubling, yes inspiring past, and is challenged on whether or no Hanbei's sentiments match his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Some of the things insinuated in Hanbei's past might make some readers uncomfortable; nothing was described with any particular detail, just drawn from research on homosexuality in ancient Japan and stories about the types of relationships that were present back then. Please keep this in mind, and let me know if any tags are needed, since this backstory was not fleshed out in the beginning. I'm not the best at knowing ratings or tags, or severity of things, so just let me know. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

* * *

               “Sekiro!” Hanbei called, the bottle of sake in his hand. “Watch your step friend, you are stumbling.”

               “No, I am not,” Sekiro argued. It was his turn to pull the small wagon up the slope toward the Sculptor’s cabin, with Hanbei leading the way along the barely visible, ill-trodden path. But Sekiro knew it was a path, nonetheless, feeling that it had been tread upon far more than the undisturbed ground. He had slung the rope to the wagon over his shoulder and trudged forward. It wasn’t too heavy, but whatever Juzou had in that sake bottle was unrefined and potent. It made this task far more difficult, as every step he took was paranoid that the ground would not be there to catch him. He was beginning to regret sharing it, though no more than he would regret if he had finished it on his own. They were both beginning to sweat the stench of the drink. He simply hoped it would not offend the sick man.

               “I know you do not remember much,” Hanbei said. “But do you remember if you were married? Had a family? Kids?”

               Sekiro was too drunk to wonder why Hanbei asked such a question out of nowhere. “No, no wife. No children.”  

               “Duty bound forever, the shinobi of the Divine Heir.”

               Sekiro felt a stab of guilt. He had thought that too until his offering dream, having been lured away from the Hirata estate _somehow_. He wasn’t about to argue that with Hanbei, still preferring that the man always thought him perfect in his service to his Young Lord. That was important to Sekiro.

               “What of you? Wife? Family?”

               Hanbei chuckled. “My life has been complicated, Sekiro. I hope you would not judge me for it.”

               “I will not,” Sekrio said, gentle and curious.

               “We have a way to go, I suppose I can indulge you with the long story. But just so you know, it is not a happy tale and I do not want to depress the Sekiro any with my sad long story, because it is a sad one—”

               “Tell it.” Sekiro interrupted Hanbei’s slurred rambling.

               Hanbei fell quiet, as if mulling over the details. “You asked me what happened to my face, and in my story lies the answer, but first, you must recall the mention of my Master.”

               Sekiro nodded for him to continue.

              “Nobutomo was a good man, strong in stature, and taller than even me,” Hanbei said. “young at the time he began training me in the honorable ways of a honorable warrior, but much older than I was. We forged a bond like no other I have had in my life, and when I came of age, we had an unbreakable brotherhood. We traveled together and we did _everything_ by eachother’s side. But shortly after my coming of age, a lord found my services appropriate and I was to be his protector.”

               Sekiro exhaled briefly. “Did Nobutomo accompany you?”

               “No,” Hanbei said, the pain in his throat was audible. “The Lord wanted me for himself, hardly for protecting. I suppose the only reason he chose me was based on my appearances alone, because that was all he seemed in need of me. A pretty face to have in his bed.”

               Sekiro was quiet for a long moment, feeling sorry for Hanbei but also understanding the circumstances. He had seen it many times before, and it was none of his business. It was very common, though it was unusual to think of Hanbei in such a situation.

               “I see. Continue.”

               “Nobutomo would send me letters,” Hanbei said gently. “At first they were filled with benign sentiment and fake words. I knew Nobutomo and his letters made me sick with their shallow poems and tales. I hated them. At that time, the lord would let me reply to them, but that soon stopped. Nobutomo’s letters did not, however, and it was a good while before they became…well…more and more genuine. And I began to love them, because it was clear that Nobutomo loved me. Truly, loved me.”

               Sekiro was not surprised, but he was entrapped in Hanbei’s story. What Hanbei described as a love between is former master and friend, was nothing short of honorable. While his own life, at least Sekiro recalled, had not made room for him to fall in love or experience anything aside from his duties, he had always known that love was a powerful force, more powerful than hate, or lust, or jealousy. Sekiro smiled, thinking of the Divine Heir. He did love that boy like he was his own son, and his loyalty to him was so much more than a shinobi to a Lord. It was a calm revelation that Hanbei had gifted to him, and he would have to thank him for it later.

               “Were you able to write him eventually?” Sekiro asked, moments later.

               “Yes, I managed to sneak a letter or two out with the servants. I told Nobutomo that my heart was his to have. I remember my words so vividly. I remembered them because the way my Lord felt about me was nothing in comparison. And…then he found my letters, stashed away in a box beneath the floor. I should have hidden it better.”

               Sekiro did not have a good feeling about what was to come. He looked to the lines of his face, carved away deliberately, and sensing what happened without the words spoken for it. Perhaps Hanbei sensed this because they both fell quiet and passed the sake jug between them a few times.

               Sekiro’s face turned a bit numb from the cold and the booze. “Your Lord retaliated.”

               “He wanted to make sure no one else would look fondly on me, not even himself,” Hanbei whispered. “And he accomplished his goal because he found another. I was happy for the respite, and I fled his estate not long after.”

               Sekiro nodded. “Under the circumstances I am glad you abandoned your duties.”

               “Nobutomo thought similarly, in the least selfish way possible. He was the one that carved my mask, though he never feared looking at me.”

               “He loved you,” Sekiro explained, as if he were a quizzed child explaining that the sky was blue.

               “We were happy for many years after that,” Hanbei said. “I count my years with that lord as a brief aside to the story of us, together. I do not resent any part of it. I thank my Lord for giving Nobutomo the courage to confess his love for me. Who knows if we would have found our way together otherwise?”

               Sekiro paused in his pulling of the cart to take a breath. He was starting to get tired, and each step felt more unsteady than the last. Hanbei must have noticed this, because he came to Sekiro’s side and took the rope from him. Though night had fallen, a dim moon lit their faces in the pale, peaking briefly from behind the clouds and the trees surrounding them. Hanbei’s eyes were brilliantly dark, and they glistened peculiarly, and so did the streams down his cheeks. Sekiro reached a hand forward to place on the man’s arm. It did not take much to figure out what happened next.

               “I am sorry you lost him,” he whispered.

               Hanbei seemed relieved not to have to say it. “When you are immortal, the curse is never obvious at first. But then….”

               Sekiro nodded. “I understand.”  

               Hanbei shouldered the rope and pressed forward, and Sekiro, against his better judgement, finished off the bottle of sake. They walked in silence for what seemed like an hour, the bitter cold getting to him enough to stop.

               “Is the cabin so far from the temple?”

               “No,” Hanbei admitted. “I think we are lost.”

               Sekiro let a smile escape him. “What an adventure we’ve found ourselves in, then.”

               “And your smile makes me think you truly feel that way,” Hanbei teased. “I am not sure I can find my way tonight. Perhaps we should set up camp, start a fire.”

               “The Sculptor is sick….” Sekiro did not feel comfortable abandoning the state of things like this. But nonetheless, he set about gathering some logs on the ground for a fire.

               “He cannot die, similar to myself. We will make it up to him,” Hanbei slurred out. Sekiro felt himself nodding, and it wasn’t long before the two found themselves huddled around the fire and eating the warm pottage that Hanbei had made for the Sculptor earlier. The food helped the mood, and Sekiro enjoyed the warm stew-like meal fill his stomach comfortably. He pulled one of the extra blankets around himself and Hanbei did the same.

                “May I ask you a question, Sekiro? About an observation I’ve made.”

                “Hmm?” Sekiro grunted, pulling the scratchy thick blanket over his ears.

                 “I’d like to wonder about whether or not we are …not so different.”

                 “Hmm…?”

                 “Could be my imagination….”

                 “Speak, Hanbei.”

                 “Emma is very beautiful,” Hanbei began. “I’ve come to this conclusion. Objectively speaking.”

                  Sekiro was silent.

                  “You do not seem to think so,” Hanbei said.

                  “Why would you think that?”

                  “You do not look at her as others do? Do you?”

                   Sekiro huffed, frustrated with this tedious line of questioning. “I do not want to insult the woman. She is beautiful.”

                  “But you would not be interested?”

                  Sekiro’s nostrils flared. “I don’t know.”

                 Hanbei fell quiet before laying down in the snow, curled up in the blanket a bit tighter. Sekiro mimicked this, staring at the fire, but his eyes flicking to Hanbei beyond it. Sekiro, felt uncomfortable and upset, thinking that Hanbei was insinuating something that he simply did not have the answer for. And why would it matter? His dedication was to the Young Lord only. He did not have time for detours of his heart or otherwise. Maybe that was why he felt so aloof toward Emma’s beauty. He did not like to admit that Hanbei's observations were correct, but how was not being interested in one woman proof of something else entirely? Sekiro had to stay focused on his mission. His duty. That was the end of that thought, the only conclusion to be drawn. 

                  He very much wanted that to be the truth. If it wasn't, it would mean that there was a distraction that could bring ruin to everything. And that distraction was undoubtedly resting on the other side of the fire, and not sitting in a cabin with the Sculptor.

                  Sekiro closed his eyes, feeling the sake play with his mind, waves and waves sloshing over him. He felt like the ground was moving without him, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling, nor was it one he made a habit of searching for. The chill settled in his bones and he curled up more under the blanket. He saw Hanbei struggling to do the same. Without much more thought, Sekiro stood and moved to the other side of the fire, laying down beside Hanbei. The two of them decided to share the blankets and bunker down for warmth. Sekiro finally felt like he was drifting deep down into sleep, when he heard Hanbei’s voice one more time.

                  “Every time I die, I see him,” he whispered.


	6. The Furrow in your Brow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sekiro and Hanbei wake up to a dull surprise and later, when Sekiro doubts his ability to protect Kuro, Hanbei offers something that Sekiro appreciates deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An inbetween chapter, but one that is important nontheless. I almost sense the story I wanted to tell coming to its climax soon. Thanks everyone for reading and your kudos and comments!

               “Master Wolf….”

               Sekiro shifted underneath the stiff cold blankets. He bumped into the body next to him, and his head jostled just enough to make him groan. The thumping of his heart made every moment of waking a living storm; thunderous and terrible.

               He was not used to hangovers.

               “Master Wolf.” Another gentle prodding with an equally gentle voice.

               Sekiro sat up on his elbow and looked around, and then up to someone he hadn’t expected to see. Emma. She stood there, dressed and groomed as always; the smell of her perfume was nearly overwhelming. It made his headache worse.

               “Why do you call me that?” Sekiro grunted beneath his breath. “What is it?”  

               “I was concerned when you did not arrive last night and set out first thing. My surprise to find you only feet from the cabin….”

               Sekiro blinked wearily and looked around, his eyes spotting the cabin to his left, beyond a few trees and rather visible. Hanbei and he must have been circling it all night. Embarrassment hardly registered at that moment, not until Hanbei rolled over and sat up next to him. Emma took a step back.

               “My apologies.”

               “No need for any of that. We drank too much,” Sekiro said. Admitting so wouldn’t have been in his original personality either, but his head rang like a terrible bell. He looked to Hanbei who seemed to be on the same leaf as far as miserable hangovers go. Emma bowed and turned, moving back toward the cabin as fast as she could without skipping into a jog. Sekiro watched her leave and his gaze eventually landed on Hanbei’s marred face. His trainer wiped a hand over his eyes before pulling the mask from his pocket, putting it back in place – or trying to. It was upside down. Sekiro sighed and reached over, turning the mask upright, to help.

               “Thank you…” Hanbei glanced to the left and chuckled. “It was right there all along? I knew I was close.”

                Sekiro remained quiet, trying his best to will himself out of his current state. Hanbei sat there with him, swaying back and forth, but within minutes he stood and started collecting their things and returning them to the wagon.

                “Oh no,” Hanbei whispered.

                Sekiro tossed his eyes up with a harsh squint. “What?”

                “Your brow is even more furrowed than usual,” he teased. “So, sake was not the secret. It just makes for a grumpier Sekiro.”

                Sekiro managed a dull stretch of his lips, almost attempting a smile. He failed.

                Hanbei chuckled, apparently appreciating the attempt. It wasn’t long before they were pushing inside the small cabin where the Sculptor rested, trying to keep his cough under control. Emma made him tea, and Hanbei set to warm up the leftover pottage – or whatever was left from Sekiro’s and his dinner last night. It was a long day. The shinobi discussed at length about the cure Emma sought, and sipped some tea to nurse his aching head. He couldn’t help but exchange glances with Hanbei though, who did the same to him from time to time. Sekiro felt a kinship with the man now, something he wanted to nurture. If he had to spend extra time to do so, he decided he would.

                He had but one regret, however.

                That he could not be as open with Hanbei as Hanbei had been with him last night. He could not even remember his real name. Perhaps if he did remember something, he would tell Hanbei. He owed him that much.

* * *

                “Kuro,” Sekiro whispered.

                Hanbei glanced over, watching the man stare into the fire as he skinned a rabbit. Emma and the Sculptor were still at the cabin, but Sekiro and Hanbei had left sometime in the afternoon. Sekiro had gone on another trip, but he had returned sooner than expected, just after dusk.

               “Kuro?” Hanbei asked cautiously, almost afraid to spook the man. He was sensitive when it came to conversation. After last night, after Hanbei’s confessions, he felt a bit sheepish. He had laid so much on Sekiro about who he was, his past, his _love_ , and he feared Sekiro would change his mind about being so accepting of him. And that accusation! To ask if Sekiro felt the same way toward men as Hanbei did – it was the rudest he had ever been, and if Sekiro hadn’t been drunk, he might have lost his head. Even though Hanbei couldn’t die, he liked his head where it was.

               But a part of him wondered how much Sekiro remembered of last night. Perhaps Hanbei was in the clear.

               “The Divine Heir. His name is Kuro.”

               “A mild name,” Hanbei replied.

               “When he is of age, he will pick another,” Sekiro whispered. He propped a knee up and rested his arm on it. “All my memories are of him. It’s nice to see him wherever I go. Reminds me of my true purpose.”

               “You are a loyal shinobi, indeed,” Hanbei whispered. He started gutting the rabbit, placing the organs aside in a basket before putting the meat on a spit. Hardly enough for the two of them, but it would have to do, as long as they shared the organs, and the vegetables he had brought with him.

               “Loyal?” Sekiro asked. “Maybe. But I do Kuro no good.”

               “How can you say that?”

               “I’ve let him be captured by Lord Genichiro Ashina. He took my arm and I did not fight more for him, like I should have. I returned to the memory of the Hirata Estate many times, and I was not there to protect Kuro…the Divine Heir, either. Where was I? He deserves someone far more competent.”

               “I do not think he would have blessed you with the Dragon’s Blood if he did not think you were the only one devoted enough to attempt such a daring rescue. Lord Genichiro is one of the greatest swordsmen this land has ever known.”

               “Better than I,” Sekiro mumbled.

               “Perhaps. But you have the Shinobi Prosthetic. And you have me.”

               Sekiro looked up in an instant, studying him carefully. “I have you?”

               Hanbei chuckled, feeling the hoarseness of his own voice and letting the sound roll in the back of his throat. He always noticed that captured Sekiro’s attention, prompting a slight tilt in his head when he made such sounds. 

               “Did you not think to ask my aid once, you fool? I am no spring chicken, but I can hold my own. If you know where to go, and if you order it, I could help.”

               “Sounds…dishonorable.”

               “What is so dishonorable about inspiring me, Sekiro? What is so dishonorable about making a friend, an ally to aid you? What is so dishonorable about doing anything for your Kuro, for someone I know you love with a deepness unfathomable by even the Sunken Valley? Use me, Sekiro. Use me like you would that tool on your arm, use me like you would your own blade.”

               “No.”

               “Sekiro—”

               “I will not use you like you are my blade, Hanbei,” Sekiro’s firm tone made Hanbei pause. Perhaps he had said something wrong. Perhaps he had finally taken this too far.

               “I will not use you,” Sekiro repeated. “But I will ask you, with the humility of a shinobi in over his head. Will you help me defeat Genichiro? Will you risk your firmness and your comfort for that of the Divine Heir?”

                Hanbei stood and walked over, standing there for a moment before kneeling in front of his shinobi charge. He bowed his head. “I will risk everything for the Divine Heir, and equally, for my friend.”

                Hanbei felt a firm hand clap on his right shoulder, and then another on his left. Hands squeezed with a strength that felt, well, _good_ on his aching muscles. He did not lift his head, but he felt a bump against his forehead. Sekiro’s downturned face slipped into view. His nose pointing downward, his eyes closed, the top of his head pressing against Hanbei’s forehead. He was bowing deeper than Hanbei ever would have expected from such a noble warrior.

               “Thank you, Hanbei.”

               “Anything to lesson the furrow in your brow, my friend.”


	7. The Ghosts of Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sekiro and Hanbei storm the Ashina Castle, knowing that their final battle will be against Genichiro himself. What they do not know, however, is Genichiro has harnessed a power they are not prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS AHEAD! If you have not defeated Genichiro, I suggest maaaybeeee not reading this chapter. (You can however move to the next!) Things have taken a different turn as far as character interactions go, simply because Hanbei is involved now, but there is still components pulled from canon story line. This chapter is also the longest of the story so far, so enjoy the extra words!

* * *

               Jinzuke Saze bowed before Lord Genichiro.

               “There have been reports, he is coming. And another is with him.”

               “Another?” Genichiro turned to the elite samurai warrior. “The shinobi has a friend? Laughable. Cut them both down. The boy will relent and there is nothing he can do to stop me.”

               “Yes, my Lord,” Jinsuke Saze bowed deeply and waited for the heavily armored man to push through the hidden passageway and up the stairs to the watch tower. Saze waited for the room to fall into a peaceful silence before closing the passage way and carefully kneeling before the scroll mounted on the wall. He had read it thousands of times. The tales of Ghosts who once roamed the land; Ghosts that controlled the lightning from the Fountainhead gods. It was said that the Ground was the real enemy, and one could turn the lightning against them.

               Saze wanted follow Lord Genichiro’s orders. But he knew what he had to do. He could only hope that the gods would look favorably on his sacrifice, and that the mortals – or otherwise – would be none the wiser of his disobedience.

* * *

               Sekiro dropped down from above and spun the body of the samurai to the floor, before gliding his blade swiftly through the man’s throat. Blood sprayed over the face of his blue-robed comrade, but before he could react in any meaningful way, Hanbei had slipped behind him and his blade drove deep through his torso. Sekiro noticed that his taller friend was …considerably heavier handed than Sekiro. Despite his curious uneven build, he was strong, and Sekiro was happy he had been pulling punches during their training.

               “Good work,” Hanbei said.

               “No time,” Sekiro murmured, slipping to a crouch and tip toeing to the door. He saw an open room, where the upper walkways overhung a drop to the lower levels of Ashina castle. Hanbei stood beside the door as Sekiro peeked out from behind it. “You should continue that way. Circle around. I will draw them out.”

               “Playful, but I am the walking target and you are the ninja, am I sensing a hero’s complex?”

               Sekiro sighed. “Very well. Have fun.”

               “Hanbei chuckled and stepped out from cover, swung his sword into a pot, and smashed it to the ground. “Oops.”

               Three elite samurai warriors charged to the battle.

               And he was the one with a complex?

               Sekiro felt like Hanbei could get himself killed _somehow,_ being as bold as he was. But no matter how he got cut down, he got back up. Again, and again. Sekiro was not whatever this man was, and he didn’t want to admit that Hanbei frightened him sometimes. He tried not the think about it.

               Sekiro used Hanbei’s distraction to his advantage, flanking the samurai and catching them off guard, enough to cut them down. As more opponents flooded the walkways, Sekiro and Hanbei pushed closer together, weaving into combat – or perhaps it was even a dance. Sekiro grappled onto the fixture above and kicked a samurai over the railing, before plopping on the shoulders of another and driving his sword through his chest. He yelped as he was tossed over the railing by the falling body, but a hand was quick to snatch his arm. Sekiro grinned and climbed the railing, pushing himself over his friend and guarding against an attack that would have sliced Hanbei from behind.

               “Thank you!” Sekiro shouted, before spinning out of the way and letting Hanbei’s juggernaut style of combat overwhelm their last opponent’s broken posture.

               “You would be dead without me, shinobi,” Hanbei boasted.

               “We must hurry. This way,” Sekiro urged him, pushing through the door on the other side.

               “Do you know where you are going?”

               “Yes.”

               “You remember?”

               “No.”

               “Right. Of course.”

* * *

                Jinsuke Saze was sitting in front of the scroll when he heard the footsteps behind him. He lifted his head and stood, reading the scroll one last time before turning. “Lord Genichiro has instructed me to kill you, shinobi. And your friend.”

               Sekiro frowned, peering at the man for a long moment before carefully drawing his sword. Hanbei did the same.

               “But before we begin, I must tell you my last story. A story about Ghosts and Lightning.”

* * *

               “Divine Heir, I’ll ask you once more. Accept me into your immortal oath.”

               “I cannot do that, Lord Genichiro…for he will risk his life to take me home. He is my shinobi.”

               Sekiro stepped gently on the wooden floors of the castle tower look out, standing as tall as he could. His sword rested in the L of his hand, and he tilted it forward with practiced care. He waited patiently for Hanbei to step beside him. His eyes rested on Kuro, and for a moment he felt a wave of relief to see the boy intact and unharmed. To see that he had come just in time, to see that his efforts had not been wasted. His breath slowed, and he heard Hanbei’s own slow to match his as he took a protective, albeit passive, stance.

               “My Lord, I have come for you.”

               Lord Genichiro turned, his broad form and ceremonial garb blocked the Young Lord from Sekiro’s view. This made the shinobi snort impatiently.

               “Your arm…a prosthetic…and an ally. Crude,” Genichiro taunted, taking a step closer. Though, he paused, and Sekiro felt him peer between the fabric of his being. “I see… as long as you live, the dragon’s blood can never be mine.”

               “Sekiro, this fool seeks what can only be given,” Hanbei sneered.

               “Sekiro? Is that your name now? Mm… the “one-armed wolf”. Poetic, but strange of you to take your failure against me to heart.”

               Sekiro tensed and clicked his scabbard forward more, resting his hand on the hilt of his blade. He felt a flush to his cheeks and a clench on his heart. His memories pinned to the surface but he could not grasp them. ‘Sekiro’ wasn’t his real name he knew… it was the name of a man who had one purpose, and that purpose was soon to be fulfilled.

               “My Lord, this…will only take a moment,” Sekiro breathed, drawing his blade. Hanbei followed his cue and took a step forward.

               “A dishonorable fight? No matter. I expected this.”

               And with those last words, Genichiro sprung into action, diving into a roll and pulling the massive bow from his back, firing an arrow at his dragon’s blood target. Sekiro dove to the side and Hanbei leaned into the volley, taking the arrow to the shoulder. He laughed and tore it from his flesh, tossing it aside.

               _Hanbei you son of a—!_

               The battle was frantic, their foe was indomitable. His sword skills superior in every way and Sekiro felt like every moment of gained footing meant he lost two others right after. Hanbei was doing his best to take the brunt of the hits, giving Sekiro time to recover. But this was not right! He promised Hanbei he would not use him like this! That he would not be a sword, that he would not fell at the expense of himself.

               Sekiro pushed in and his sword clashed with the heavy fang of Genichiro. He felt the force against him build up in his entire body, a force so great he feared he would crumble to dust. His muscles screamed in pain. His bones tore raw and his stomach twisted into a knot. _Kusabimaru_ would never wed well to Genichiro’s blade - unless he found a weakness. A weakness that rested within a drop of time he could not see, any more than someone would be able to single out a drop of rain from a storming sky.

               Sekiro heard his head hit the wood of the floor. For a flash that lasted far too long, the world was dark, no sound, no feeling, just an impossible sloshing sea of darkness. He could not feel his body. He could not hear his mind. He was alive he knew but tramped under his exhausted and concussed state.

The world snapped into view, just in time to see Hanbei’s sword between Genichiro’s and Sekiro’s own face. Hanbei screamed as he kicked the terrible lord back on his heels.

               “Get up Sekiro!” his friend screamed.

               Genichiro only took advantage of the space he was given, once again drawing his bow in a tight and powerful fury. The arrow flew, but Sekiro rolled on the floor, the iron tip splintering into the wood like a tiger’s tooth chomping into soft flesh. Hanbei rushed to pull Sekiro to his feet as another volley of arrows whizzed by. Sekiro counted five, but only saw two land past them. Hanbei had pulled him into a tight hug.

               “Counter him. Mikiri, we have trained for this.”

               Sekiro pushed Hanbei out of the way, a stolen glance to notice the arrows that had landed in his back and the staggered stance of a dying man.

               _He will live, he will not be stolen_.

               Sekiro had to remind himself, though he harnessed the fury of his friend coming to harm like a hungry wolf. He quickly unlocked his shinobi tool and tossed a string of firecrackers down to the floor, using the boisterous cries of gunpowder to close the distance between him and his enemy.

               “You are full of cheap tricks!” Genichiro screamed angrily as Sekiro sliced his blade against the back of his shoulder.

               “The world is not made of the honorable,” Sekiro breathed Hanbei’s lesson.

               “Clearly!”

               Thunder boomed above and rain began to pour hard against the roof of the watch tower. Swords clashed like flashes of lightning, and slowly, Sekiro began to understand. Genichiro was turning into a predictable machine. He had gotten away with his heritage and his rank for far too long, taken for granted his training. He was a puzzle box, and Sekiro began to slide each wood piece of his tactic open. Slowly. Patiently.

               Hanbei interjected time and time again, and each time Genichiro cut him down. His expression grew more horrified as Hanbei stood against him like a recurring nightmare. He was speechless, his posture breaking, Sekiro earning his blows swiftly and with great exhaustion. One final thrust from Genichiro, and his mistake had been made. Sekiro slammed his foot down on the sword and performed a flawless Mikiri counter into his stomach. He pulled back to witness Genichiro fall to his knees.

               “I am not impressed, Shinobi of the Divine Heir… you would have done well to serve a different Lord, but he would not accept you now.”

               Sekiro noticed that the rain turned to cold ice and fluttering snow. The wind began to lament in pain. This was no act of nature, and she was suffering.

               “Heresy,” Sekiro breathed.

               Genichiro chuckled, his armor warping and bending from an invisible force. It clattered to the ground piece by piece. “Heresy you say? You spoke the truth earlier, shinobi.”

               Hanbei limped beside Sekiro, and the shinobi turned his head to him. “Go.”

               “Sekiro….”

               “Leave. Now.”

               Hanbei did not listen. Sekiro took a step back and lifted his sword beside his cheek.

               “The world is not made of the honorable…and if it is to protect Ashina, I will seize any manner of heretical strength,” Genichiro said, his voice as cold as the storm around them. He picked up his sword as it sparked with lightning, his bare broken body now in view. It was bleeding and grotesque. “Behold…the Lightning of Tomoe.”

               Sparks immediately flew through the air and toward Sekiro. He gasped as his body was wracked with a pain he had never experienced, and he collapsed to the floor once more. He seized and grew rigid, a heat flowing through him like he was on fire from the inside out. He heard a scream, Hanbei’s scream, and he saw his friend crash beside him. His body smoked and his hand clenched before uncurling. Sekiro felt limp fingers brush against his outstretched arm, knowing himself to die soon. '

               He thought…maybe if Hanbei saw his master…maybe Sekiro could see….


	8. Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genichiro falls, and Sekiro finally reunites with his Young Lord, Kuro. While Hanbei rests, Sekiro finally learns his true name, and receives a warning he did not want to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be a good one ;)

_Hanbei…_

Sekiro saw him. A loose hand would run through his hair. Sekiro would curl into his lap. Tears would escape from time to time. He would keep going, running, fighting, facing his fears, however many there would be. And then the warmth of the fire at his back, the warmth of his body beside him. His arms between them, the sounds of his breathing, his movements closer. His laugh, oh, that laugh. The laugh that rolled out like hot bubbling oil, oil that held the fires burning for so long. His mask, no, his lips, marred yet smiling, his eyes glistening in the moonlight, his heart in his palms, vulnerable and beating.

               Sekiro reached out and took Hanbei’s hand.

               On that tower.

               During this storm.

               He fastened his fingers to his like he was hanging above a precipice, but the valleys below were for mortal men.

               They could never die.

               Sekiro jolted and his body rose before he had the consciousness to move it. He lifted his gaze to Genichiro’s sad form, and to his seething expression.

               “No. NO!”

               _Fear the Ground, Reverse the Lightning._

Sekiro charged Genichiro one final time, as the man summoned the skies to his terrible sword. He leaped as the lightning struck. He swung his sword and felt the energy pulse along his blade, no time to think, only to act. He heard his own scream as a bright flash consumed his vision...no…that was not his scream. It was Genichiro’s!

               By the time Sekiro landed, Genichiro lay on the floor in a heap.

               “You…cannot…stop this, shinobi,” the Tomoe warrior rasped out. “You are a snake in the weeds.”

               Sekiro had nothing to say to this. Genichiro was defeated. That was all he needed to know.

* * *

 

               Hanbei was heavy in Sekiro’s arms as he carried him down into the castle. His eyes were alert, searching, and he nearly gasped as he saw who he had been looking for all this time. The Divine Heir. His Lord. The young boy Kuro. Hanbei inhaled deeply but did not open his eyes. Kuro padded over and pointed behind him.

               “This way, my shinobi. He can rest in here.”

               Sekiro nodded and followed his Lord, feeling strange that he could not immediately fall prostrate to him after taking so long to come to his rescue. He wanted to beg forgiveness, he wanted to make sure the failures of the past would never happen again. But for now, Hanbei demanded his immediate attention, so he followed Kuro to a paper wall divider. The Young Lord slid it gently out of the way to reveal a small room with a few bed mats inside. Sekiro gently placed Hanbei down on one of them. Genichiro’s lightning must have injured him in a new and exhausting way, he guessed. It was a mystery, exactly _what_ Hanbei was. A mystery that someday, Sekiro hoped to solve. Maybe even cure.

               Sekiro gently covered Hanbei up with a rough blanket, and the two were quiet as they let him be. Sekiro followed his Young Lord to a small alter, where a strange smelling incense burned. He fell to his knee and bowed, and Kuro, as always, wiggled his toes in his sandals.

               “I took too long,” Sekiro whispered. “It will never happen again.”

               “You saved my life. You have nothing to apologize for. You are much too hard on yourself.”

               Sekiro exhaled roughly, keeping his eyes down.

               “Thank you, my shinobi. I knew I could trust you,” Kuro continued.

               “What do we do now, my Lord?”

               There was a gentle pause as Kuro moved to the alter and inspected it. Sekiro glanced upward and watched as his small fingers danced around the small incense burner, wanting to touch it, but refraining for some reason.

               “I think we should rest and catch up. Much has happened, hasn’t it?”

               Sekiro felt his body relax far more than he wanted to, the weight of everything that had happened finally hitting him like a giant club. He nodded, and Kuro knelt in front of him. He had no choice but to fall back and sit, and he enjoyed the calm moments they took to be together. It had felt like a century since he his Young Lord had been taken from him, and Kuro must have felt the same. He seemed contemplative, but tired, understandably.

               His first question caught him off guard, however.

               “That man…he called you Sekiro,” Kuro began looking to Sekiro’s prosthetic arm. He reached over to touch it, and Sekiro reflexively pulled it away. He relaxed immediately though, letting Kuro explore his new arm with curious hands. “Is that your new name?”

               Sekiro furrowed his brow for a moment and his lips parted, trying to figure out a way to explain his memory loss. He didn’t want to worry his Young Lord, but it had become apparent to everyone else. Hanbei, the Sculptor, and Emma alike. He licked his dry lips with a sticky tongue and Kuro no doubt sensed his hesitation.

               “I see,” he whispered. “I did not realize what the dragon’s blood might do to you….do you want to hear your real name?”

               Sekiro nodded.

               “It’s Wolf. Now you are the one-armed Wolf, Sekiro. I do like that name, but, as my shinobi, I think I get to choose for you. Your old name or your new name. I don’t know how you got your new name, but it seems to mock you.”

               “A strange man gave it to me,” Sekiro murmured. “It was better than nothing. But if you want me to return to Wolf, I will.”

               Kuro smiled and scooted closer to him, before leaning into him.

               Wolf released a careful smile in return, slipping an arm around the young boy. Sometimes it was easy to forget just how young he was, what burdens would rest on his shoulders, and what life he would have to grow into. But as his shinobi, Wolf needed to protect him, and sometimes protecting him meant more than cutting someone down with _Kusabimaru._ Sometimes it meant protecting the heart, the soul, the spirit of a child that was alone in the world. Sometimes it meant showing a bit of affection in a cold angry world, even if the arm that was around him belonged to a man who was cold and angry.

               Well, at least Wolf used to be. Now, he let his mind wander, staring off in the direction of the room where Hanbei was resting. He felt warm, thinking of him, just as he felt warm with the Lord pressing into the side of his chest.

               “The man you were with, what is his name?”

               “Hanbei,” Wolf answered simply.

               “He is your friend?”

               “Yes, he is. He has helped me greatly. He helped me rescue you.”

               “He is…not like you.”

               “No, he is not.” Wolf confirmed Kuro’s question, apparently enough to silence him for many minutes.

               “Be careful, my shinobi, that is all I want to say.”

               Wolf’s heart stung for a moment, like an arrow shot straight through a daydream. He didn’t want to be careful. He wanted to trust Hanbei with his life, with _more_ than his life and he hadn’t realized just how much he wanted that until someone challenged, for a moment, that it might be taken away. He couldn’t even fathom that.

               “You should go and wash up, get some sleep,” Kuro instructed. “There is a library here that I think I could become rather engrossed in. I will be all right.”

               “I don’t want to leave your side again,” Wolf murmured.

               “You will have to, you know that. But we will discuss that later, shinobi. So please, clean up and rest.”

               “Yes, my Lord…”


	9. Cold Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanbei reflects on a new morning and finds his conversation with Kuro to be worrying. Nervous about confronting Sekiro about his feelings, he finds that the shinobi has no words to say.

               Hanbei toed out into the main room the next morning. He remembered the fight, he remembered falling. He remembered Sekiro’s hand. The lingering feeling of the shinobi’s fingers intertwined with his own was near intoxicating, and it had given him a peaceful death. But in the end, he hadn’t known what happened. Did Genichiro fall? Was Sekiro safe?

               There was a distant rustling that he followed across the room. He entered a partitioned space, packed with bookshelves and stacked tomes and papers, all of which had an age and musk that permeated the air. It was then he saw a tiny form climbing a tall shelf in the back, and equally tiny fingers trying to tease a book off the top shelf. Hanbei pushed over without hesitation, seeing what might happen before it had begun. Of course, the young lad yelped and slipped backward, but Hanbei was there to catch him. A stack of books toppled to the floor and papers scattered everywhere.

               The boy looked to Hanbei with wide eyes. “You must be Hanbei!”

               “You must be the Young Lord, Kuro,” Hanbei chuckled, carefully setting the boy to his feet and kneeling to help him pick up the books.

               “So, he spoke of me?”

               “Near constant, my Lord.”

               Hanbei handed a small stack of books to the boy, but quickly realized he would have too much to carry, so he only gave him a few.

               “Good, that means he _is_ speaking,” Kuro said in a playful tone.

               “He’s very serious. So, I suspect he is healthy, as you are, yes?”

               “Yes, I am well, and so is he. I told him to bathe and rest, and I hope he did. He smelled like a barn.”

               Hanbei chuckled at that. “You should have smelled him after he drank an entire jug of sake. It leaked from his pores for a day.”

               Kuro rolled his eyes, but a wide smile suggested it was in good humor. He carried the books to a clearing on the floor and sorted through them. Hanbei set the rest down by him, and continued to wander through the library, looking through the titles of the books and maybe opening a few. He felt his eyes glaze over with the stories and texts inside, having no idea what any of these books were about.

               “You must be very smart,” Hanbei said, walking over. “Do you want some tea? I do make some nice tea.”

               “Thank you,” Kuro said, already lost in the words of the books.

               Hanbei walked into the main room and hunted for a small kitchenette for tea making. He had to explore downstairs, albeit a bit carefully. He sensed others in the castle, though, now that Genichiro had been defeated, it was difficult to sense whether or not any of the inhabitants would be inspired to take arms against a stranger. The upper levels of the castle were deserted, and not even the bodies they had left in their wake remained. The only people he could see were a few shuffling servants who seemed despondent at best. He found what he needed and used the tea leaves on his person. No one bothered him.

               It wasn’t long before he offered a cup to Kuro, and the boy took it gratefully and sipped it. “Oh, now I know why Wolf likes you.”

               “Wolf?” Hanbei cocked his head.

               “Yes, he very much enjoys good tea. We visited a tea house once on a travel and he made up all sorts of excuses to stay the night there, including convincing me I was too tired. It was just about the only time I have ever seen him argue with me. Well, that earnestly.”

               “I am glad Genichiro didn’t know to make good pot of tea.”

               Kuro snorted and covered his mouth. “I don’t think he knew how to boil water!”

               “Funny, those warlords never know how to take care of themselves. Speaking of which, ah, I should see if Sekiro wants some tea as well,” Hanbei announced, pouring another cup. It was lukewarm by now, unfortunately, the steam weak as the liquid poured.

               “Thank you for helping him. Though, he is my shinobi so I must ask something rude of you.”

               “What is it?”

               “Do you love him?”

               “W-what?” Hanbei sputtered. He was surprised by the bluntness of such a question, and the startling transparency.

               “He speaks of you differently and it is clear to me that you speak differently too. I need to know if you love him.” Kuro near demanded.

               Hanbei opened his mouth, blabbering for a heated moment. “It is a strange kind of love, the love I am capable of.”

               “I think I know how Wolf feels too. You should talk to him. However, I do not know how he will feel about cold tea.”

               “I should heat it up.” Hanbei concluded. Kuro’s words floated around, unreachable.

               “I suspect it will only get cold again,” Kuro said plainly. “He is in the room next to yours.”

               Kuro leaned back against the wall, and once again returned to his readings. Hanbei wasn’t sure what the Lord meant by that, and it sent his nerves on a spiral. He quietly stood and gathered the cup he had poured. It would have to be enough.

* * *

               The walk to the other side of the room felt like it had taken a century, and he carefully slid back the partition to the Sekiro’s room and stepped inside. Sekiro was there, washing his clothing in a wash basin piece by piece. He wore the long blue robes of the castle samurai.

              “Sekiro,” Hanbei choked out.

               Sekiro dropped his clothes in the water with a splash, turning and standing in one swift motion. He had to adjust the robe, so he didn’t twist up in the extra fabric. He was too short for them and that detail tugged at Hanbei’s heart, seeing how small he seemed at this very moment, but also how unapproachable.

              “I did not mean to startle you,” Hanbei said, carrying the tea to the shinobi, who scoffed at the accusation. He took it carefully, putting a skeletal palm over the top.

              “You did not. I have a lot on my mind,” Sekiro countered instantly.

              Hanbei noticed that Sekiro seemed distant, not even taking a sip of his tea, not even noticing it was in his hands by the looks of it. Instead, his gaze was intensely on Hanbei, his eyes fierce and dark. His beautiful eyes.

              “Do you wish to speak to me?” Hanbei ventured forward.

              “I do not know how to say it,” Sekiro murmured. “But we must discuss something important. I have been thinking about it all night.”

              Hanbei frowned, feeling as though the floor beneath him was about to crumble. He looked around the near empty room. The sun had not yet reached the slits in the window, and besides the wash basin, the only thing else in the room was Sekiro’s sword leaning against the wall, and an undisturbed bed mat. He felt only dread for what was to come, knowing now the extent of Sekiro's restlessness.

             “I’ve never been good with words,” Sekiro managed.

             Hanbei turned away from him. Perhaps this was what Kuro meant by the tea turning cold. It would not make any difference if Hanbei had tried to return the heat between them. Because now, the deed was done, Kuro was safe, and Sekiro had to move on from their connection. He looked down to his hand and closed his eyes tight. He started to shake, so he clenched it hard to rid himself of the feeling, the feeling Sekiro had left behind when he had tangled between them. The feeling of his hair under his nails, the feeling of his warmth on a cold night. He prepared himself to say goodbye to something that he thought he would never feel again.

             “On the roof…when I died…”

             “Nevermind, I cannot hear it,” Hanbei took another step away from him.

             “Hanbei….”

             “Sekiro, Wolf, whatever you wish your name to be… I…I am devoted to you. I never thought anyone else could hold my heart, but when I died yesterday, I did not see Nobutomo, I saw you. I know it is over. I know we must part ways now. But please, Sekiro, I beg of you, do not say it. We should simply part, like the melting snow in the Spring sun, the coming of a new season, and perhaps there will come a time when we see that season again, but at least there will be a hope remaining for me. I do not have much left, I do not have much left but you and this curse.”

             The room plummeted into silence. He could hear his own breathing, and he thought that maybe Sekiro had left the room. But then there was the sound of a clinking tea cup, a soft echo of shifting fabric, and the cracking of an old knee. Hanbei turned his head, and then his body to face the man he feared would abandon him, only to be proven wrong with a gesture so welcoming it robbed him of his breath and of his mind.

             Sekiro stood, the long blue robes open and hanging off his carved shoulders. His hands were poised to his chest, but when he lowered them, the rest of the robe slipped to the floor in a silken heap. The shinobi’s chest rose and fell with dramatic and staggered breath, and he too trembled where he stood. Hanbei had never seen a more beautiful body, though it was woven with scars and hardships, though it carried an alien tool as an arm, he knew it only as strong, resolved, and warm. And now Hanbei was content letting the tea get cold.

             Sekiro clenched his jaw. “I’ve never been good with words.”

             Hanbei took a panicked step forward, grabbing his shoulders, his neck, the side of his face. “Then we do not have to speak.”


	10. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolf and Hanbei spend the morning together and Wolf finds the peace he has been dreaming of.

                  “Then we do not have to speak.”

                  Wolf’s brow relaxed considerably, and he managed a brief smirk before carefully removing Hanbei’s mask. To think that the goal of the scarring was to exile Hanbei into a life of loneliness, and to think how happy it made Wolf, knowing that goal was forfeit. It barely took him another moment. He leaned in and caressed Hanbei’s lips with his own. It was only a pinprick, just enough to release the pressure he had felt building for weeks. And after he heard the soft catch of air pop from their lips as they parted, Wolf couldn’t help but set free a gentle chuckle, reserved only for the deepest relief he had ever felt in his life, and as a man.

                  Wolf’s hands found anchors on Hanbei’s shoulders as he slipped up on his toes. Hanbei’s height was going to be a challenge, but the old warrior was willing to help him, leaning deeply down to meet him, and letting Wolf slip his arms around his neck.

                  Tender, careful, explorative; like the threading of a needle. Wolf’s lips where like fingertips brushing along a new surface. This was true to shinobi form; he was cautious and wary. Hanbei’s lips however, were rough around the edges and cracked in some places. These were imperfections the Wolf was eager to map. He sensed his counterpart’s desperation and impatience, and in a way, it was exciting to set the restraint at first. It didn’t last long though. They met in time like an intricate dance. It was clear Hanbei knew more steps, but the wolf set the music, taking his time to lose himself in this journey. He opened his eyes and fell back on his heels, already winded by the height difference.

                  “I think I saw a stool in the library—” Hanbei began to tease before Wolf huffed and threw himself at Hanbei again, this time locking them in a passionate exchange.

                  He opened his mouth wide, encouraging Hanbei to do the same, only to close his lips vigorously around his upper lip, his bottom lip, his chin, and the corner of his mouth. He chased and leaped after Hanbei’s kiss like it were golden scaled carp, swimming along with the current and diving in for the hunt. His hands curled into Hanbei’s neck and jaw, and in turn, Wolf felt the warrior’s strong hands grope into the flesh of his back and hip, before reaching down to firmly cup his buttocks.

                  Wolf gasped and gave Hanbei a gentle growl from the back of his throat.

                  “How rude of me,” Hanbei dipped down to whisper in his ear.

                  “Not before you undress,” Wolf bargained.

                  “Deal…but shinobi I must warn you….”

                  Wolf couldn’t help but paw at Hanbei’s tattered garb, untying the sash at his waist and pushing back the fabric to reveal his chest. It was a sight to see. The man was riddled in scars and burns, torturous marks he had never laid eyes on before. Wolf did not take another moment to look, knowing that they were about to get to know each other’s bodies well enough, and his own was starting to throb impatiently.

                  “Warn me about what?” Wolf asked, his tone dipping as he pulled at the threads of Hanbei’s trousers.

                  “I…am not attractive--”

                  “Ha!” Wolf belted out. The sound echoed in the room and it reminded him that they would need to be quiet, for the Young Lord’s sake. “We are not flowers, we are thorns. Scars and burns do not turn me. Do they turn you?”

                  “No, Sekiro, of course not.”

                   Wolf set to discarding Hanbei’s clothing in a more or less intact state. He may have torn a few things, but who was he to care about that now? He took a moment to scan his eyes over Hanbei’s broken body, but he did not see a mantle for disgust. He was admiring a man who could have taken and survived so much damage. He could pick out the mortal scars from the ones Wolf himself had given him, and though he was as marred and dull as the crag polluting the cliffside, the shinobi saw Hanbei as a beautiful mountain. He felt the impossible urge to curl up in the safety of his strong arms. Perhaps later.

                   “I am curious now, if you have been with a man before,” Hanbei said, once again closing the gap between them again. Their naked bodies formed together like an uneven and graveled riverbed, but the warmth was a pleasant feeling. Wolf was still unsure if he was trembling from excitement, nerves, or the harsh chill of an early Spring morning.

                   “Perhaps I have,” Wolf murmured under his breath, trying to maintain his confidence as he pushed himself up into another kiss. There was no such memory, but this was a natural state he now entered, and Hanbei’s male form was no doubt attractive to him. There was _direct_ physical evidence of this attraction in fact; something that Wolf had always treated as an annoyance was now going to facilitate the rest of their activities this morning.

                   Hanbei took his hand and pulled him to the floor mat, and Wolf fell on his back first, welcoming Hanbei to rest above him. He reached back and pulled the tie from his hair, feeling it puff out with friction and static. He turned his head into Hanbei’s hand as he traced through the silver on his face and hair. The shinobi was not used to this position, so submissive and exposed, but he wanted his mountain above him. It excited him, especially to think he could get away with this rewarded and unharmed, unthreatened and satisfied. Could he dare ask for such a luxury? Would Hanbei never hurt him or cause him to fear a blade between his rib? Neglecting his training and neglecting his mission this morning felt devious and delectably aggressive. It suited the Wolf, it suited him right now. He could spare an hour or two, for himself.

                   He hoped.

                   He would love that.

                   And, he counted every moment until he couldn’t count any more. Every kiss until he was lost. Every jostle until he turned numb. Every playful oily laugh and exaltation from his lover until it became as natural to hear as the birds outside. It was difficult to remember every moment, though he clung to every moment like it was his last. It was delightful to feel safe like this, pleasure like this, Hanbei _like this_. And it was long overdue. At least that is how he felt at first.

                   Somehow, Wolf felt himself staring into something deeper. He hugged his slick body to Hanbei and gazed at the ceiling, or down into his eyes, or at the imperfect weaving of the bed mat. His fingers could claw into the wooden floor, into Hanbei’s back, against his chest or in his own hair and still he’d feel something _else_. He wanted this. Sex. But he also wanted _more_. He wasn’t sure how to get it. He wasn’t sure what to call it. Or if he did call it something, it sounded childish; nothing for a dutybound shinobi. He laughed out loud when he thought of a word, which timed perfectly with a wash of pleasure that crashed into his body like an ocean against the shore.

_Love?_

                   “Sekiro,” Hanbei whispered.

                   Wolf liked it when he used the other name instead. It was about the changes he had gone through. While he could have been mocked like Kuro suggested, there was something about the way Hanbei said his new name that fit so perfectly in his ear. Especially when Hanbei’s hot breath curled it inside like melting candle wax.

                    “Hanbei,” Wolf growled back clawing and sucking at his jaw and neck. He felt that rumbling chuckle against his lips and it electrified his body in such a pleasant way.

                     With every spike of lust, it was countered by a reminder that these feelings sprung from richer soil. Nurtured by stories, by warmth, by comradery, and by loyalty. By everything they had been through together since they had met, since the tides had turned, and since Wolf had _failed._ Strange thoughts filtered through him now, drawing him away from his passions for just a moment. _Snap!_ It was beautiful to think that his failures as a shinobi had led him here, for if he had defeated Genichiro on the hill and not on the roof of this tower, then Hanbei would not be with him this very moment.

                     Absolution?

                     Yes.

                     That was something far less childish than the word ‘love’. That was what Hanbei truly meant to him now. A way to forgive himself. A way to forgive everything. He wanted to tell Hanbei this, just now, right now, but their affair was beginning to overtake even the most basic of thoughts. All he could do was enjoy these countless moments.

* * *

                     Wolf lay beside Hanbei, and he sensed the sun had moved far above them. He felt Hanbei tracing his scars affectionately, taking the time to kiss each one within reach …or  moving a bit further if they were scattered to places he must have found attractive. Wolf slipped on his back and stretched his tight muscles, and Hanbei kissed his way back up, over his stomach and to his chest. Wolf looked down and smiled.

                    “Hanbei?”

                    “Hmm?”

                    “I could use some tea.”


	11. Stolen Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolf awakens to laughter, but is soon marked with a bad memory.

               Wolf stirred awake, alone in the room of Ashina Castle. He could hear Kuro’s laugh immediately in the next room, muffled by distance and the thin paper walls. He stirred under the blankets, feeling his nakedness against the rough bed mat. He eyed the empty cup of tea on the floor beside the bed, remembering Hanbei having been so kind as to fetch him some after their torrid affairs. He must have fallen asleep after finishing it. It was such a warm and welcomed comfort, and he had to remind himself to ask about it one day. Wolf inhaled deeply, smelling nothing but musk from sex. His body felt so pleasantly released, yet surprisingly invigorated. All he wished was that he had woken up next to Hanbei to make another advance. He was in that mood.

               But, unfortunately, he felt the midday heat settle in the room and knew it was time to get up and face the day. What he had only meant to be an hour affair had turned into several, after all. How many times had they embraced the passions? Three? Four? How selfish a morning this had been, and how selfish of Wolf to want more! But he did, and he spent another five minutes pouting about it before finally uncovering, washing up again in the basin, and dressing into the blue robes he had discarded in the act of submission.

               As Wolf padded into the main room again, trying his best not to trip on the length of the ill-fitting robes, he heard Kuro’s laugh again. He crossed the room and into what looked like a library, and he was happy to see Hanbei sitting at a desk with Kuro.

               “And then the samurai **_skipped_** through the battlefield, only to swing his **_fish_** across the chest of an **_orange monkey_**. Why on earth is there an orange monkey on a battlefield, Kuro? And WHY would a samurai have a fish as a weapon? You were supposed to fill in a story!”

               “I did, Hanbei. In this story, the samurai skips everywhere he goes, and maybe you can write more for me to fill in so we can explain why he has a fish instead of a sword.”

               “Very well, very well, give me a moment and I will write a backstory,” Hanbei said, dipping his brush in ink.

               Kuro looked up and smiled. “Shinobi, hello. Hanbei and I were playing a game. He writes a story, but I fill in blanks with any words I choose! And then we read it together. It can be very silly.”

               “I see,” Wolf said with a kind smile. He studied the Divine Heir and Hanbei’s slow and careful writing, his chest winding tight. “May I speak with you a moment, my Lord?”

               “Yes, of course. Hanbei I will return shortly.”

               “This will take me a moment anyway, Kuro. You’ve given me a challenge.”

               Wolf walked to the other side of the room and behind some bookshelves. It was there that he knelt before Kuro.

               “I wanted to apologize—”

               “Shh,” Kuro said. “I don’t want to hear it.”

               Wolf exhaled and glanced upward. “But--”

               “I like it when your hair is down, shinobi. You know that.”

               Wolf’s hand immediately twisted through his hair. He had forgotten to put it up! He must look like a fool. He grunted in frustration, but Kuro only laughed.

               “In other words, I am glad you took some time for yourself, shinobi. Hanbei is a good man.”

               “You are far too young to know of such things,” Wolf lectured.

               “Maybe…but you could have been quieter.”

               Wolf’s jaw dropped and he felt his entire body flush in embarrassment. Kuro only laughed again and turned to run back across the room before his shinobi had any more to say about his brashness. Wolf was hardly finished speaking with him but perhaps the Lord was right. Nothing would be done today, so they might as well take the rest of it. Kuro could play games and be a child, and Wolf could be with Hanbei. He felt like his heart was lifted and full, and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it. The guilt he carried did not haunt him today. That was the strangest feeling of all.

               Wolf moved to join them, sitting down on the floor as Hanbei read their new adventures about how the samurai had lost his sword when the fish swallowed it, so as revenge, he used the fish as a weapon instead and somehow the sword still functioned—Wolf had lost track of the fantasy. Their imaginations were too bizarre for him to focus on. Instead, he picked up some notes and books that Kuro had clearly set aside. Everything was about the dragon’s blood, and its nature. It was disturbing that Kuro was studying this, and his notes were disturbing still. He spoke of ways to end the curse, to end the dragon’s blood. The seriousness of his convictions contrasted so profoundly against the joviality of his game with Hanbei. It was then, that he understood.

               Wolf’s morning with Hanbei was a stolen one, just as this afternoon was stolen for Kuro. This day would not last forever, nor would its lightness. It was a gift.

               He had to cherish it.

               Wolf stood and moved through the palace upper rooms, taking the time to explore. He at least knew Kuro would be taken care of for now. He pushed back into his room and checked on his drying clothes, before opening a window to release some of the smell that hung in the air. He then picked up the empty cup of tea, before spotting the cup of cold tea that Hanbei had brought him earlier. He felt a bit guilty now about wasting such a lovely drink.

               Bah, what was the harm with cold tea?

               Wolf took a sip.

               He inhaled sharply as the taste stained his memories. A fountain of anger rose within him. This tea. _This tea._

               Only cold, could he have remembered this tea.

* * *

3  _years ago..._

               “What are you reading?” Kuro asked, tiptoeing over to the Wolf as he sat on the window sill of the Hirata Estate window. He was dressed for bed and Wolf was watching over him that night. He had a feeling, and this letter didn’t help.

               “Nothing to worry yourself about, young Lord.”

               “Your brow deepens, shinobi. Every day it looks more and more bent with worry. So, what are you reading?”

               “It is a warning,” Wolf murmured. “There are threats to attack the Hirata Estate. To kidnap you, my Lord.”

               “This is not the first, it will not be the last. I trust you to protect me, shinobi.”

               Wolf nodded to him but looked to the letter. The handwriting was not the best. Heavy handed and written quickly. It was not in the language of any scholar, surely, but not a peasant either. He was confused by it, and more irritatingly, he was frozen by it. What could he do with this warning? The letter tried to lure Kuro away from the estate, offering shelter somewhere in the forests. There was a map to it even, though the ink was smudged on some details.

               “This mysterious man offers aid,” he handed the letter to Kuro and let him read it. “But he did not sign it. I have no idea who he is or if the map he provided is true. It could be a trap.”

               “You should go see, Wolf.”

               “I will not leave you, not when there is a threat against you.”

               “You can go, quickly. We cannot sit idle either,” Kuro said.

               “My Lord—”

               “I order you to investigate,” Kuro said firmly.

               Wolf studied the young boy, his big eyes and face looked so young but…he had the manner of someone much older. His duty to the Divine Heir was insurmountable, and he would never leave Kuro undefended. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do what he was ordered.

               “I am sorry, my Lord. I will not leave your side.”

               Kuro looked at the letter and a tear slipped off his cheek and onto the paper. “What if…we can go together. Leave forever. Just you and me, shinobi. We can leave these threats behind. You can take care of me. I won’t have to be here any longer.”

               Wolf frowned and knelt in front of Kuro, carefully lifting a thumb to his teary cheek.

               “We both have our duties.”

               “I don’t want this life, Wolf. Please…protect me from it.”

               Wolf’s cheek twitched and he studied the young boy’s sweet face. He exhaled gently as Kuro slipped closer and wrapped his arms around his neck, and it didn’t take much for Wolf to return the embrace.

               “I suppose It would not hurt to investigate,” Wolf broke.

               “Thank you, my shinobi.”

               The Wolf had packed a few things and left the Hirata Estate that afternoon, pushing deep into the woods and following the clues on the map he had been provided. It took him hours to reach the small shack that offered refuge, but when he had pushed inside, it was empty. A pot of tea rested on the table, and a few cups were poured. Wolf took a sip of it and turned his mouth. The flavor wasn’t like anything he had tasted before. Like rotting bark and damp earth a few days after a storm. Still, he found no other trace of refuge, or of a man that had written a letter. After hours of searching, and even more hours it took to return to the Hirata Estate…by the time he did, it had been too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I do not know how he will feel about cold tea.”


	12. Your Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolf confronts Hanbei about the Hirata Estate and learns once more of a troubling past. Burdened with the distrust, Kuro helps them understand what needs to be done, and what needs to be done together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day?! Gosh!  
> In truth I had written these together, but I hate nasty cliffhangers so I have gifted you with, sadly and joyously, the last chapter of this story cause I got no chill.

               Wolf didn’t know what to think. He didn’t even know if he could breathe. He paced the empty room, staring at the bed Hanbei and he had shared. There had to be an explanation to this. His memory was poor…if he could simply calm down. He tore his clothes from where they hung to dry and changed into them. Yes, they were still damp, but he had no care for comfort at the moment. Indeed, he felt as though he had his fill of that.

               Wolf secured _Kusabimaru_ to his hip and tied his hair back into his usual pony tail. He felt a balance restoring to him almost immediately, but there was a sickness settling in his stomach. Whenever the pendulum swung too far one way, there would be an equal swing the other way. Was this what he deserved? Truly? Was Hanbei not who he thought he was? He didn’t want to believe it.

               As he tread carefully across the main room and back to the library, his silence and expression demanded the attention of the room. Hanbei grinned, looking up, but the grin quickly faded. Wolf felt as though he replaced his mask in an emotional sense, though his scored lips were still exposed. Kuro looked between them, puzzled and concerned.

               “I need to speak with you Hanbei,” Wolf managed. The bitter taste of the tea was still in his mouth, and for brief moments he thought he smelled the fire in the air. His memories and visions were so vivid and inescapable, and Wolf had a difficult time believing it to be a coincidence. “It is urgent.”

               Hanbei stood and walked over to him, but Wolf turned and led his way to the center room, and back upstairs to the roof where they had fought Genichiro together. He needed the fresh air and the reminder. The reminder of how Hanbei had sacrificed everything to make sure the Divine Heir was safe. Yet…

               “The Hirata Estate was attacked by bandits…and I was not there to defend Kuro. I remember why.”

               Hanbei stepped closer, carefully, but at the same time kept his distance. He was cautious, and Wolf could sense this, which put the shinobi even further on edge.

               “There was a letter I received, rather…Kuro received. It was my job to make sure each letter that came to him was not poisoned, so I read it. It warned of an attack on the Hirata Estate by a group of bandits and I remember the words clearly… ‘by those you consider in your trust’. And I thought that accusation was so profound that I wanted to listen to it, and I wanted to listen because Kuro wanted to be free of this life. The author offered refuge in the woods. I went to investigate, but when I finally found this cabin, all I found were a few cups of tea. The same cold tea left behind in my room. I have never tasted anything since then. But I did today.”

               Hanbei seemed…sad. That was the only word Wolf could think to describe his expression, but that was only because there truly was no word for it. Defeated perhaps – no it was a deeper sadness than that.

               “I wrote the letter….” Hanbei admitted softly.

               Wolf turned his head and huffed. Those words stung. “Then you were trying to protect us?” He hoped. “Like your letter said? How did you even know who the Divine Heir was? How did you know the Estate would be attacked? How did you know these things, Hanbei?”

               Hanbei wandered to the ledge of the tower and leaned over it, watching the clouds cover up the beautiful spring sun. Wolf moved to join him, though he still kept a certain distance from him.

               “It is a long story. I hope you listen.”

               “I will,” Wolf said.

               “Nobutomo was ill for many years. I was afraid to lose him. I simply couldn’t lose him. I spent so much of my free time researching and trying cures. But then there was a story of the dragon’s blood and the Divine Heir.”

               “Hanbei, no…” Wolf nearly whimpered.

               “I…wanted to save him, Wolf. He was the love of my life, I would have done anything! I was even hired alongside the bandits to attack the estate. I thought I would have my chance to reach the Divine Heir. But I knew that was a long shot, not when there were those more powerful than I who were after Kuro for the same reasons. So, I wrote that letter. And I did not know anyone had come to it, I swear, Sekiro! I didn’t know! Not until I met you and you confessed your guilt, that you could not remember why you were not by his side but deep down I knew that it was because of me!”

               “Hanbei!” Wolf pushed off the railing. “That night, the Divine Heir could have—I almost failed him. I almost failed him days and weeks ago. I _did_ fail him! And you told me it was not my fault and all this time you knew what you had done? And are you still after him?!”

               Wolf drew his sword in panic, pointing it his way. “You cannot die but I will cut you down one thousand times to keep him safe, Hanbei!”

               “You should blame me!” Hanbei shouted back, turning to him and putting up his hands. “I do not fault you for that. Nor do I fault Nobutomo for storming out of the cabin once I told him my plan. He was so distraught with my ugly and dishonorable actions that he renounced me as the warrior he trained me to be. As a samurai. And the pain of this brought his death before me! That very night. I lost him,” Hanbei choked. “I wish I could right the wrongs I have done, the greed, and foolishness. And I would not blame you if you renounced what we shared as well. But believe me, Wolf. I was cursed with the infestation and rightfully so. I bore that curse because I did everything to deserve its wrath. But when I met you, and I knew that you had been gifted the dragon’s blood…I just wanted to help. I wanted to help.”

               Hanbei dropped to his knees and hunched over, digging his hands into the wooden floor of the tower. He then made a fist as Wolf slipped his sword underneath his throat. He had listened to the story, but he wasn’t convinced. Hanbei could still be after the Divine Heir – he could still be using Wolf.

               “I suffered, but I learned my lesson because of everything we have been through,” Hanbei continued. “Because instead of the dragon’s blood serving my life, I serve it. I serve the Divine Heir. I serve you. And most importantly…it helped me do what I thought was impossible before. I get to move on…because I fell in love with you, Sekiro. I fell in love with you.”

               Wolf stood there, feeling all the strength and anger leave him that very moment. He let his sword drop, and then his body. He slipped closer to lift the head of the man who was genuflect before him. Wolf curled his fingers behind his ears.

               “I want to trust you,” Wolf whispered. “But I fear you are still after what you sought before….”

               “That is why we must end it, once and for all,” a voice sounded behind them. Wolf looked up to the door and saw Kuro standing firmly, and strongly, his fists clenched. He walked over, the tiny pitter patter of his feet thumping to the beating of Wolf’s heart. The shinobi let his hands slip to Hanbei’s shoulders, and Hanbei in turn hung on to his arms and elbows.

               “The temptation for everyone, whether for greed, power, or even love…it is too great. It corrupts all men, eventually. It might even corrupt you, Wolf.”

               “My Lord….”

               “We must stop it. But we need friends. We need people we can trust,” Kuro whispered.

               Wolf looked to Hanbei and Hanbei looked to him. Wolf stood and offered a hand, and Hanbei took it firmly, standing up with him. Wolf didn’t let go, gathering up all the emotions he could toward Hanbei.  Love seemed like a childish concept this morning, but somehow it made more sense now. Because he got to choose it. It was too easy to feel giddy and precious in the arms of a lover and a friend, but what if things were difficult? It was difficult now. And yet, Wolf still wanted to devote his trust in Hanbei. Perhaps, that was what love was about.

               Still holding onto Hanbei, Wolf slipped closer and pressed his forehead into his. “My Lord is right. We need you. I want you. I love you too. Fight with us to end this. Please.”

               Hanbei smiled and released one last lovely chuckle. Wolf felt it in his chest, in his heart.

               “In that case, I stand as your ally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sekiro: We Can Never Die has been such an amazing experience to write, and I hope everyone loves it from start to finish. Truth be told, I wrote two endings to this - one where it faded out into simple bliss, and one where it added one final conflict and resolution, for Wolf and Hanbei's pasts. I chose the latter, hoping to leave the reader with a sense of invigoration and possibility. Perhaps there will be a Part 2, perhaps not. But in any case, I feel like the ending will fill my readers with imagination and hope. 
> 
> I want to thank all of you who have commented in such amazing dedication, and for all the readers and views and Kudos. You have made this story extremely fun and rewarding to write. I have been extremely humbled and appreciative. What started off as a story for what I thought was a silly ship has turned into something very personal to me. I hope that I delivered on that rewarding experience to you has much as it has been for me.


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